


Kevin Price is a Hot Mess (A Three-Part Mini-Opera)

by worrylesswritemore



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Coincidences, Crush at First Sight, EVERYTHING IS THE SAME EXCEPT MCKINELY WASN'T ASSIGNED TO UGANDA, Kevin is a mess, M/M, Misunderstandings, That falsettos reference tho, bad timing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore
Summary: Kevin Price didn't make a great first impression on Connor McKinley. His second and third ones weren't that much better.





	1. Oh, and the vomit

**Author's Note:**

> *Whizzer Brown's voice* Kevin Price is a hot mess: a three-part mini-opera.

“Hey Buddy, maybe you should sit down for a bit.” Arnold’s voice sounds distorted in Kevin’s ears, and he doesn’t know whether to blame the roar of the party around them or the blood rushing in his ears that is drowning out almost all noise.

Kevin scrunches his face up in disbelief, scoffing, “Are—Are you _kidding_ me? It’s a _party_.”

“True,” Arnold patronizes, unable to not laugh a little as Kevin lurches forward and has to latch on to his friend to keep balance, “But you look like you rode the Teacups one too many times, and I’m getting worried about my shoes.”

“What are you _talking_ about? I feel _great_.” Though now that Arnold mentions it, his stomach suddenly sours and rolls, sucking the buoyancy out of his step and the beam off his face. Kevin looks down at his cup and squints at it skeptically, “What’s in this again?”

“Vodka,” Arnold says with emphasis, and _oh yeah, that’s right,_ “And that’s not your first one.”

_“Vodka,”_ The word seems funny to him, so he says it again, “Vod _ka_.” His stomach rolls again coupled with his head spinning, “Oh Arnold, I don’t think I like Vodka.”

One particularly rowdy partier knocks into Kevin’s back and causes him to slush the liquor all over his shirt, the poignant smell overwhelming his nostrils and causing a hot, sweltering simmer to rise in his gut. Kevin looks down at the ruined button-up and abruptly turns around, throwing the cup to the ground, “My mom got me this shirt, _Asshole_.”

Arnold’s large hands wrap around his shoulders and thrust him backwards before the beefy drunkard even notices that he’s spoken to him, causing another unpleasant flip in his soured belly. _Oh fuck._

“We're leaving,” Arnold announces, tugging Kevin through the house on route to the door, “I have an English presentation tomorrow morning anyway. Need to not be _so_ hungover, after all.”

“This party is so much fun,” Kevin declares, “Why haven’t I come with you before?”

“You hate loud noises—and loud _people_.” Arnold reminds him, sounding a little amused. He’s not stone cold sober himself, so his grip on Kevin’s shirt collar as he herds him around is throttling. Luckily, Kevin has enough mental cognizance to unbutton a few buttons on his shirt, which negates only some of the pressure.

The cold air hits him hard as Arnold slams the door open and leads him onto the porch. He finally lets go of Kevin, but he soon stops just as he starts to make his descent down the stairs, “ _Crap_. I forgot Nicaragua.”

“Last time I saw her, she was out-chugging some frat guy in the kitchen.” He recalls the dazed, confused panic in the guy’s eyes at being bested by some one-hundred pound girl, and he laughs.

“Stay here.” Arnold says with a raised finger, and oh, he has his _serious_ voice right now. How _adorable_ (though he can’t really tell if he _actually_ thinks it’s adorable or if it’s just because that’s the only word he can remember right now). Kevin tries to reply, but just as the words form in his mouth, Arnold is already gone and has been for the past five minutes.

The lurches in his stomach grow in frequency, so he distracts himself by leaning against the small iron railing of the porch. A gust of wind sends the stench radiating off his shirt straight to his nose again, and Kevin is painfully reminded of how much he _hates_ Vodka. He’s only been drunk a handful of times, but he knows enough to realize that it isn’t supposed to feel like _this_ —Sweating all over, _aching_ all over, his mouth unable to form a coherent sentence. Vaguely, he tries to recall the symptoms of alcohol poisoning, but he can hardly focus on anything except his own ragged breathing.

When _it_ hits him, he barely has time to brace himself before he’s leaning over and vomiting into the nearby shrubs. The bile streams out of his mouth, the silent night being disturbed by the hacking sounds coming from his throat.

After what seems like hours, he hears the front door open and shut, signaling Arnold’s return. Through sheer will power, he manages to close his mouth and swallow the remaining vomit back down, making it slither slowly down his throat like a drunk serpent. Smacking a hand over his mouth just in case, he turns to receive the disappointing gaze of his two friends only to be faced with the wide, confused eyes of a stranger.

Kevin opens his mouth to apologize but ends up vomiting all over the guy’s shoes instead.

“Oh God,” He hiccups after his stomach is finally empty, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” The guy says gingerly, looking down at his shoes with a strained expression, “I wanted an excuse to leave this party anyway.” He looks back up at him and his face changes, as if he’s actually getting a full look of the hot mess in front of him for the first time. Kevin becomes painfully aware of the vodka staining his shirt and the drool on his chin, and he very nearly vomits again out of sheer humiliation.

“I don’t do this often,” Kevin tells him hurriedly, “Your shoes are the first to ever be vomited on by me.” He wants to explain further, but the spinning sensation in his head is soon giving way to a splitting headache that has him visibly wincing. He spies the water bottle in the man’s hand and his stomach twists at the sight of it.

“Crazily enough, you are _not_ the first person to vomit on my shoes.”  The guy informs him, a shy smile gracing his lips.

“Oh please don’t be nice to me,” Kevin begs, “I mean, I ruined your night. I ruined _Arnold’s_ night.” The fact that this man probably has no idea who Arnold is doesn’t even register in his mind.

He tries to tell him why he actually agreed when Arnold half-heartedly asked him to come tonight, how he was just sad and lonely and didn’t want to think about what he would do if he were alone tonight. Somehow, this long, coherent explanation that formulates in his head doesn’t make the translation to his mouth as he very passionately and visibly on the verge of tears declares, “I wasn’t invited to my aunt Mirren’s annual sandwich social.”

“Uh,” The guy blinks, and it’s then that Kevin belatedly notices that he has _very_ pretty eyes, “I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t want to go. I was going to say no,” Kevin heaves a little (luckily no vomit escapes his lips this time) and continues, “I always _hated_ going. It was way too crowded in that stupid suburban house and the ‘games’ she’d make us play were boring and she always overcooked the ham. But I wanted to be _asked_ , you know? I want to be able to at least pretend that I’m not the family’s disappointment.” The stranger doesn’t respond and just continues to stare at him with a vague mixture of confusion and wonder.

Unable to take the man’s gaze, Kevin looks down at his ruined shirt and the man’s ruined shoes. He thinks he might actually _cry_ but a laugh escapes his lips instead, “I’m going to Hell.”

“Hey now,” The man exclaims, smiling slightly in disbelief, “That's an over-exaggeration. These aren’t even _Gucci_.”

“Not for that,” Kevin then leans in, belatedly realizing that the guy probably doesn’t want to smell his putrid breath, and whispers, “I drink _coffee_. I say _damn_. Hell, I’m a _declared enemy of the LDS Church_ ,” He pauses, amending, “Well, I don’t know if it’s _in writing_ somewhere or anything. I just received a _very_ strongly worded letter from the Mission President and sort of filled in the blanks myself.”

“You’re _Mormon_?” He says it without disgust or disdain; he sounds…well, _amazed_. Terribly confused and slightly panicked, but amazed nonetheless.

Kevin shakes his head but winces at how the action seems to knock his brain around, “Not anymore. I helped start a cult in Africa.” It sounds ridiculous to say it out loud to someone who has no idea of the circumstances, how difficult and heartbreaking the journey was for him to turn his back on everything he ever knew and once held dear.

The man seems to notice his obvious pain and offers his half-empty bottle of water to him. Kevin looks at it like it’s an infested dead rat. The guy scoffs and unscrews the cap himself, placing it in the other’s hand forcefully, “It’ll help with the pain. I think I saw club crackers in the kitchen. Want me to go get them?”

Kevin shakes his head, “My friends should be here soon.” He stares at the water and grimaces, feeling a new wave of nausea overcome him. _Ah, fuck it_. He drains the water bottle in a few long, loud slurps, aware of the man’s scared yet slightly amused eyes on him. When he’s finished, he holds the empty bottle out to him and is actually able to focus on the man’s features for the first time.

He’s redheaded with light dusts of freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose and at the top of his cheekbones. He’s a generic sort of handsome that Kevin usually hardly notices, but there’s something—the glint in his wide blue eyes, the straightened slope of his shoulders, the raised brow knitted in concern, the sympathetic twist in his mouth—that makes him look twice. He takes the most pause on the other's mouth, absently wondering if he would mind the taste of vodka on his tongue.

“You’re adorable.” Kevin blurts out. The guy is surprised by the comment, a light blush decorating his cheeks. He acts like one drunk guy complimenting another vomit-covered guy isn’t a natural occurrence.

And then the boy actually _smiles_ at him, a welcomed change to the crooked grin that had been permanently etched into his face, “No, I’m Connor.” Kevin doesn't even register the joke and takes the greeting with a smile and nod.

“Kevin Price.” Like his mother raised him, he extends a hand that closes the distance between them. Connor looks hesitant at first but just as he slowly moves to take his hand—

“Kevin, we need to _leave_.” Arnold bursts through the door with a heavily intoxicated and heavily pissed Nabulungi plastered to his side, sparing a glance inside the house with a clear look of panic, “We are in danger of, and I quote, ‘having our bodies bent into new furniture as a gift for his mother on her birthday.’”

“I spit in the fact of that _coward_.” Nabulungi wrestles against Arnold’s grasp but she’s too drunk to overpower him, “And then I will cut off his dick to present to his mother as a gift for her birthday.”

Kevin hears a commotion within the house and watches Arnold turn pale. Without another word, he grips the wrist of Kevin’s outstretched arm and yanks him away, running even faster than on free donut day in the cafeteria. Distantly, he hears Connor call a goodbye after him, and the rest fades into oblivion.

:: - ::

The next morning, all Kevin can remember about that night is the stranger’s concerned blue eyes and the name _Connor_ on his lips.

Oh, and the vomit.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Frequent mention of Blood, Rodents, Minor Character Death (and isn't that the best summary I've ever come up with).

At the slight rustling of the pile of clothes on the floor, Kevin sends the wooden broom sailing down, missing the rat just by an inch as it scurries under his bed. Arnold lets out another high-pitched squeal and launches himself across their dorm, bracing himself by the door.

Kevin grimaces and tightens his grip on the broom, planning on giving his roommate only a passing glance until he notices the blood gushing from Arnold’s nose, “Uh, Arnold, you got a little something right there…”

Arnold covers his nose and sighs dejectedly, “This always happens when I’m nervous.” Kevin huffs a laugh, but it dies in his throat as he watches the thick, hairy rodent waddle out from under his bed and moves directly towards Arnold.

“Arnold, _don’t move_.” Kevin readies his weapon and tries to walk as casually as he can toward it without raising suspicion.

Arnold sucks in a breath, demanding in a whisper, “Kevin, kill it.”

Kevin shuffles closer to it, broom raising in the air, “ _Wait_.”

“Kevin, he’s looking right at me.” The rat slinks closer to him, its beady red eyes locked on the heavy-set man, _“Do it.”_ At this point, wet blood has painted his entire mouth, but the man is too petrified to wipe it off.

“Not yet.” Kevin looms over it, broom poised over his head. Just as the rat reaches the tips of Arnold’s toes, Kevin brings the broom down, hearing a disgusting crunch of bone.

Only the rat doesn’t die. Rather, it lets out a deafening roar and simply _accelerates_ its pace, zipping towards Arnold. The man screams and jumps forward in an attempt to dodge the attack, his body smacking into Kevin and sending both men down to the floor.

Crushed under Arnold’s weight, Kevin can only meekly push against him, “ _Get off_.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Arnold raises his head up and grimaces down at Kevin’s white shirt, “Sorry about that, too.” He follows the other’s gaze only to find his shirt is now drenched in the blood from Arnold’s nosebleed, making him look like some extra in a low-budget slasher movie.

“This was my last clean shirt.” Kevin shoves Arnold off of him and gets up, looking around their dorm room. Unfortunately, the rat is nowhere to be seen, probably nursing the bruise on his back and planning to nibble their toes off in their sleep as revenge.

“I _told_ you we needed to go straight-up _nuclear_ on this thing.” Arnold reminds him, “Hitting it with a broom would be like hitting Godzilla with a flyswatter!”

Kevin huffs, “Let me go ask the RA for warheads then.” Glancing around, he picks up the first wrinkly shirt he sees and goes to strip his blood-soaked top off.

“Whoa, not so fast!” Arnold halts, ripping the clean(ish) shirt from his grasp, “Remember the last time I asked Kony for help with that huge draft in our dorm?”

A chill runs down his spine, “Unfortunately, with vivid detail.”

“Exactly,” Arnold gestures to his dirty shirt, “We’ll need all the sympathy we can get.”

“Yeah but—“

“Kevin, I think you can handle not being the _Belle of the Ball_ for five seconds.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes, “ _Fine_. But _you_ have to stay here and keep an eye on that thing.”

“You’re leaving me _alone_ with him?” Arnold looks around worriedly, “But I can hear him _plotting_ , Kevin. He’s trying to isolate us.”

Kevin gives him a suffering look, “He’s a _rat_ , Arnold—not Michael Meyers. Besides, I’m just going down the hall. The RA probably has like rat poison or something, right?”

“Just don’t be surprised if you find me roasting under a fire with an apple in my mouth like a dead pig!” Arnold calls after him, missing the way Kevin rolls his eyes as he shuts the door behind him.

:: - ::

Only a few minutes later, Kevin is walking back to his door with a rusted machete in his hand, the gruff words of _“Just give it a good whack. It works better than any mouse-trap I’ve ever tried”_ ringing in his head. Wielding a broom is one thing; waving around a pointy piece of metal is something completely different. He’ll have to ask Nabulungi to come over and take care of it while he and Arnold cower in the corner. Certainly not the manliest route to go, but hey, he’s not kidding himself by pretending to be the pinnacle of masculinity. As Arnold so endearingly reminds him from time to time, the sheer size of his assortment of hair products has already disqualified him.

“Kevin Price!” An unfamiliar voice calls behind him, making Kevin pause right before he reaches his door. He turns around to face the stranger, a bemused greeting poised on his lips. But then he catches sight of the man’s red hair and blue eyes, and the recollection hits him like a semi-truck.

It’s been weeks since that night at the party, but the stranger’s blue eyes have yet to leave his mind completely. The thought of Connor has always came up idly—the quirk in the redhead’s mouth bombarding his mind in the middle of brushing his teeth, the way his pitch would heighten in confusion interrupting Kevin’s routine of chores, the huff of a laugh appearing once again just as he’s on the precipice of sleep at night.

He never imagined he would see him again. After all, they go to a pretty big public college. Kevin hardly sees people with his _major_ outside of classes, much less some stranger who he’s never seen in his entire life until then.

“Hey,” Kevin says with a confused smile, “What are you—“ He trails off at the sight of Connor’s weird facial expression. Instinctually, his free hand goes up to fix his hair, but then he remembers the machete in his other hand and his white shirt covered in blood.

“Are you _okay_?”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Kevin blurts out, his face heating up, “This isn’t any of _my_ blood anyway.” Which, he realizes as soon as those words leave his mouth, doesn’t make the supposed circumstances seen any better.

“I’m not a serial killer or anything.” Kevin assures him, “You just caught me at a _really_ bad time.”

“It seems like it’s always a bad time with you.” Connor jokes though he can’t seem to take his eyes off the blood-stained shirt.

“So,” Kevin doesn’t remember his tongue being this thick in his mouth, “Do you live here? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“No, I don’t,” Connor holds up a binder, “I’m just here to drop off my notes for a kid in my Political Science class.” He pauses, distracted again, “So are you going to explain yourself further or do I have to take your word on the whole serial killer thing?” His laugh is tinged with nervousness. Kevin wants the floor to swallow him whole.

“Funny story,” Kevin tells him, “You see, I—“ He’s cut off by the muffled scream of Arnold and their dorm door busting open. Arnold, the lower part of his face covered in blood, runs screaming into the hall, the only coherent words coming from his mouth being _“Kevin Price.”_ He trips over his own feet and crashes into the adjacent wall, hitting his head and knocking himself unconscious.

From the opened door, the fat rat waddles into the hall, practically daring any of them to make their move. Without even thinking of the horrified man in front of him, Kevin raises the machete and drives it into the rat’s middle section, essentially cutting the rodent in two.

Kevin looks up and finds Connor’s wide eyes pinned on him. He just gives him a helpless smile, “Sorry you had to see that.”

:: - ::

“You look terrible.” Connor informs Arnold, whose face is cleaned of blood but is now being nurtured with a large bag of ice.

Arnold lets out a weak chuckle, “You should see the other guy.”

“Kony wanted the body,” Kevin tells them, “I didn’t ask what for. He actually looked _proud_ of me.” A small smile worms its way on his face despite his best efforts.

Connor side-eyes him, demanding, “Are you preening?”

Kevin drops his smile, flushing in embarrassment, “ _No_.”

“Kevin has a bit of a praise kink.” Arnold mockingly whispers to Connor, “It’s a little weird. You get used to it though.”

“Um—Okay,” Connor stutters, seemingly unable to think of what to do with that piece of information, “I’ll—uh, keep that in mind.”

“I do _not_.” Kevin jabs an elbow into Arnold’s ribs, relishing his yelp of pain.

“So,” Connor diverts the line of conversation, “Are you—Well, I guess I mean _were_ you both Mormons?”

“Mission companions,” Arnold gleefully declares, swinging an arm around Kevin’s neck and pulling him down to his height, “We’ve been by each other’s side ever since.” He pauses, “Hey, how did you know we were Mormons?”

“Kevin mentioned it the first time we met.”

“I did?” Kevin racks his brain but most of that interaction is hazy, “And you _remembered_?”

“Well, I mean,” Connor shrugs, a shy smile on his lips, “You were kinda hard to forget.” His face flushes as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he apparently feels the need to add hurriedly, “You know, because of the puke and all.”

“ _You’re_ the guy he hurled on!” Arnold exclaims, albeit completely unnecessarily, “Oh man, Kevin was _mortified_ when he woke up that morning. He’s not much of a party animal.”

“Neither am I.” Connor confesses, “The girl who hosted it is in my theater group. She wanted me to stop by at least for an hour.” He clears his throat, “ _Anyway_ , I was asking because I actually used to be a Mormon, too. It blew my mind that there were others out there.”

“Small world.” Arnold agrees, “So were you kicked out or did you leave?”

“ _Arnold_.” Kevin hisses, needling him again.

“It’s alright,” Connor assures, sighing, “I left. The Church and I had different… _opinions_ on something, I guess you could say.”

“You mean that you figured out it was all horse-shit?” Kevin gives him a lopsided smile, “Welcome to the club.”

“We _should_ start a club!” Arnold pushes, “For ex-Mormons. It can be called… _the Club of Arnold_.”

“You already have a new religion named after you,” Kevin snorts, smiling a little, “Don’t be greedy.” Connor laughs, and Kevin didn’t know that someone could miss a sound so much despite only having heard it once before. Cutting his eyes over to look at him, he’s surprised to find the redhead’s gaze already on him, a mixture of bemusement and elation written on his face.

All his life, Kevin has never really had friends. Growing up, he was devoted entirely to his quest of being the best Mormon ever, so all his peers were considered threats or just means to ends. Even in Uganda, he felt isolated from the other Elders, his newfound cynicism driving a wedge between them. College hasn’t been any different, him collecting an assortment of acquaintances that barely go beyond the infrequent study session before exams. Looking back, his only friends have just been Arnold and Nabulungi, and that’s always been fine by him.

But looking at Connor McKinley, Kevin feels like he could actually see him being called a friend—eventually, anyway.

Their moment is interrupted by Connor’s phone buzzing with an alert.

“Oh my,” Connor whispers, “I’m late to dance practice. Can you guys drop this binder off at Andrew Gad’s dorm?”

“No sweat, Man.” Arnold says dismissively, half his face obscured by the ice pack, “We’ve shown you that we’re nothing if not completely competent.”

Connor hesitates and gingerly gives the binder to Kevin, “Don’t cover it in blood, please—or vomit.”

“That’s actually asking a lot of me,” Connor reaches back for the binder, but Kevin laughs and slaps his hands away, “I was _kidding_ , Connor. Jesus Christ. I can handle it.” Kevin politely ignores the skeptical look Connor blatantly gives him.

“I’ll see you guys later—probably.” Connor takes off immediately, furiously typing on his phone and looking vaguely panicked.

“You probably will,” Kevin calls after him and then adds quietly, “Because God hates me, after all.”

“Do you think that the rat’s ghost will haunt our dorm now?” Arnold wonders aloud, breaking Kevin from his pathetic melancholy episode.

Kevin grimaces, “Please don’t bring that up again. I think I need to be blessed by a priest after committing that level of ruthlessness.”

“You know, it’s kinda funny,” At Kevin’s furrowed brow, Arnold clarifies, “The first time you met that guy, you vomited all over him. The second time, he thought he caught you _murdering_ someone—and then you _did_ —“

“That ‘someone’ was a rodent and it was self-defense!” Kevin interjects sullenly.

“I wonder what’ll happen the next time you two meet.” He muses, smiling mockingly at him.

“Probably my death,” Kevin answers him in dead-pan, “Fingers-crossed on that one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been MIA. The next and final chapter will come much faster, promise.

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically an AU only in that Elder McKinley wasn't apart of the mission in Uganda (he is a Mormon in this, and more will be revealed about that later). This will only consist of three parts. Comments and kudos motivate me to write faster.


End file.
